


Hungry For Affection

by NicWrites



Series: The Shape of Jaskier [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, his true form is very bisexual in color, like a succubus but not really, semicolons are given some wild love too, the snippet of poetry doesn't deserve tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23000893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicWrites/pseuds/NicWrites
Summary: Jaskier is not human.Has has no name for what he is; he may as well be the last of his kind.Still, he lives his life to the fullest.Enter a white-haired Witcher."Hungry For Affection", or "Why Does Jaskier Feel So Full Of Love?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Shape of Jaskier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653223
Comments: 28
Kudos: 641





	Hungry For Affection

**Author's Note:**

> it started with cupid!jaskier and then the idea got twisted beyond recognition...  
> enjoy!

Half the troubles magical creatures face is falling in love with humans.

We know this. There are hundreds of stories about men being enthralled by beautiful women dancing in the woods, fair maidens bearing monster children, elves with dwarves, men with women, men with men, women with women, and far beyond. We know all about that, about the unpredictability of love.

Creatures and beings can be sustained by hate, like wraiths being held in this world by their seething rage. Every child knows to fear them. Little is known of their very opposites. These particular creatures feed on positive emotions and affection. They seek pleasure and give pleasure in return, with power humming under their skin. They get drunk on lust and love.

At the time and place this story is set in, there is only one such creature. He is called, for lack of other names, Jaskier.

Jaskier likes many things about his shape.

It is not a bad shape for a human. Cannot be called short, unless he's standing next to a mountain of warrior mass, which he doesn't do often, he prefers to lie next to it. The body is above average height and nicely built, turning many heads. Yes, this part can stay.

Other aspects have to be deliberately held in place. So many things are shiny and blue, and now hidden. His skin, his eyes, his power; all of that had to go. Hair like wine at its darkest, teeth pointy when they need to be; everything changed to match an average human. And the scent, oh, getting rid of his scent is an imperative. When he lets it get out of hand, well, that's how spontanneous orgies start. Thankfully such incidents don't happen that often, only when the mood is already set.

Jaskier misses the colors a lot. He finds their vague shadows in clothing, doublets of crimson, purples, uncountable blues, with gold and shine and embroidery. He prefers them tight, hugging his form and reminding him of the general shape he should stay in.

It is hard at first, staying in shape. At times he forgets. A dwarf laughs at him, calling him a pretty beardless boy as an insult, and Jaskier barely stops himself from growing an elegant beard braided in elaborate patterns. A man has vile comments about him, and suddenly there are claws where nails once were, piercing Jaskier's palms while he forces himself to stay calm. He is a human for now. No-one should know.

In theory, he can reshape himself. It took him a few years to get the hang of being human, but now he wouldn't change it unless he really had to. He could be a dwarf, an elf, or any other non-human; he just goes with the easiest option, goes for _normality_ at the time and place.

There are rare times when his shape fails to hold together. Spikes pop out of his back, hair flows, skin cracks; at least that's how humans could describe it with their limited senses. They usually don't have time to describe it, though. Because when they are lost in moments of passion with him, they truly are _lost_. They don't care he is glowing, for he will fall out of their minds like a pleasant dream in the morning, leaving a vague memory of a night spent with a bard. The daze starts the moment he lets the smell reach them. “I am free,” it calls, not taking away people’s boundaries, only signalling they can come closer without hesitation. “I am free,” is sings and smells and tastes.

They enjoy it. Jaskier’s glow gets lost in the afterglow. Life is good.

The slow downfall starts with a witcher.

Jaskier thinks it a beautiful opportunity. Tagging along with a tough guy, and what's more, an incredibly hot one, what could go wrong?

Problem number one: Witchers are hunters. They have a knack for finding monsters and they know everything about them. Jaskier barely remembers being with others of his kind, so what is the chance of the witchers knowing? He risks it. Humans can be incredibly weird, and he plays that role perfectly. The trick is Being Too Much.

He loves to sing. As with the shape, it took many tries and screaming in faraway forests, isolating the sound made by his vocal chords. No echoes, no otherworldly instruments; just his voice, clean and utterly human.

The forest times were fun. He may have accidentally created a monster story or two.

He sings when he notices the Witcher and he sings after meeting the elven king. He dares not provoke him or having his cover blown so soon after meeting the Witcher. One lute broken, one lute gained. Maybe the king notices the slight pointiness of his ear, slipping out of shape out of fear. Maybe Jaskier is just lucky. The day is all in all not so bad. They go on and have great adventures.

Which leads to problem number two: Witchers are hot. Or at least this one.

Meaning, Witchers are sought after by a particular type of women; those who heard about their extraordinary bodies and who just have to know what of it is true. Jaskier snorts at that. For an almost-human, Geralt sure is impressive. He looks predatory with his golden eyes and vaguely animalistic noises. But contrary to popular belief, he is able to speak in full sentences. One's chances of being spoken to are heightened by one being a horse. Jaskier thinks; when he sheds this role, he must try to be a horse for a while. He also knows, if he truly wanted, he could be even better shaped than Geralt. His body, his shape, could be as good, without the mutations. From his very nature, Jaskier doesn't tire while exchanging affections. On the contrary!

What makes this a problem is the lack of ordinary not-thirsting-for-witchers people. Whether they be burly locals keeping an eye on Geralt too up close, over-eager married women discreetly moving to his lap, or just curious villagers, they are not Jaskier's prefered company. He always avoided these sorts, and now they are everywhere he goes. At first he thinks he actually has a chance, since all jealous blokes are focused on Geralt. He is wrong. He is strangely watched too, by association. Occasional lust spark pops in the air, unseen by everyone but him; not enough to call it a meal.

He is even afraid to let them feel the smell. Life alone was easier.

The lady's name is Marion and she's surprisingly well educated. They talk about poetry, she even recites her own. It's about flowers and their similarity to another particular woman, one she is in love with. However that doesn't stop her from extending some affections towards Jaskier too.

“ _For I would spin, I would dance,_

_just so I could have a chance,_

_to some time meet, to touch your tit,_ ” Jaskier sings, strumming on his lute.

Marion slaps his arm. “Hey, that's not how I wrote it.”

He grins. “Remind me, how was it supposed to rhyme?”

“ _To some time meet in hayfield,_ ” Marion recites. She is cut short before she can finish the stanza.

“Hayfield, and that's better?”

“Maybe not a better rhyme than yours, but it fits!”

Jaskier groans. “Hayfield, I'm dead.”

“Already?”

“Hmm.”

Marion takes his lute and places it beneath the bed. “Enough lyric poetry for tonight, don't you think.”

“I don't think.”

An hour later, they are back at poetry, now with fresh material for composing. Usually eloquent Jaskier is finding it difficult to put words together. Marion seems satisfied too. She is nuzzling his neck, when she suddenly withdraws.

“You are glowing!”

And what can Jaskier say, other than: “Yeah, that happens sometimes.”

She studies him with open curiosity. “It's pretty.”

Something in him breaks. What can go wrong? “Want to see more?”

She nods.

He lets go.

It is still incomprehensible, but Marion watches and she sees.

Purple in one moment, his hair then lights up and is almost pink. His eyes are closed and there is swirling shine behind eyelids. Haze comes upon her, comes and goes.

The rest of the world fades compared to the figure in her bed.

With a grimace and obviously much effort, Jaskier reverts to his body.

“Wow,” she says, and they don't talk about it anymore. Lying together on the bed and lightly touching each other is enough. They both feel somewhat loved.

Their nice time is cut short by Marion's husband returning. Jaskier shows off his quick-dressing skills, as well as climbing down the house with a lute on his back. Everything is as usual.

  
  


Something unusual is happening. Jaskier notices it when he's making eyes at a young man they meet in a tavern. Their gazes meet again and again, yet there is no familiar tugging, no hunger. He already feels full of the energy he often craves so badly. Jaskier shakes his head at the man, hoping it's an obvious turn-down.

Geralt, sitting next to him in a corner, frowns. “Are you ill?”

“No, why?” He turns his attention to Geralt's meal. It's the second steak of this evening and it tastes surprisingly good.

Geralt slaps his hand away. “No.”

“Yes.”

The answering growl is more for show than anything.

The steak tastes magnificent. Focusing on something else almost makes Jaskier forget the incident.

He is reminded of it while they're going through a long stretch of woods. No people in sight, certainly no relationship material. Jaskier can barely remember his last kiss. Was it the miller's oldest daughter? Did that happen before or after the tavern waitress? He doesn't like to think of it, so he stops. The thought can rest in peace.

He touches his hair one morning and realises they are like silk. Tugging on a longer strand he brings it low enough to see it. It is no longer brown. And there is the warmth again. As if a candle was in his head.

Jaskier buries himself in his bedroll and stays like that until he's sure he's got it under control. It’s before dawn.

He's got it under control.

For some time.

Until now.

Jaskier's skin seeps with it.

His face feels warm. There is more warmth around his eyes, where the shape threatens to slip back into its true form. Seeing hurts, so he closes his eyes and covers them with hands. He's been trembling the whole evening, so much that Geralt asks if anything is wrong. Of course it is.

Jaskier only has time to run to their shared room and lock himself in. Hopefully Geralt stays entertained downstairs.

He can't be seen like this.

Breaking, breaking down.

He tries to breathe slowly. He tries to meditate, although he doesn't know much about it, just that Witchers like to do it next to a fireplace.

Nothing helps. The moment he feels he's got it under control, another body part starts aching. Has he been in this skin for too long? Is it perhaps time to become a horse?

Knocking on the door. The preceding footsteps and the way he knocks, it is Geralt. Jaskier lets out a hurt noise. He immediately realises it couldn't escape Witcher senses.

“Jaskier? Are you hurt?”

The nightmares flash before his eyes again. Explaining what he is, even though he doesn't know, trying to look as less threatening as possible, ready to bolt at the first sight of Geralt reaching for his sword. Yes, if he has to, out of fear for his life, he probably can run from a Witcher, at the cost of losing his shape completely.

“Jaskier!” More knocking, more intense than before.

“Go away!” he says, and quickly covers his mouth. His voice is starting to have its former undertones again.

“I paid for the room.”

Oh, so it's about the room? He grunts, that should cover the peculiar noise his mouth insists on making.

“And you will pay for the door if I have to kick it in.”

That helps bring Jaskier back to reality. The power within him is getting worse. Without much thinking, not that he usually thinks, he reaches the door and turns the key, before stumbling back and assuming his previous position on the floor.

The door flies open, its hinges sharply creaking. They are being shut again and then Geralt is kneeling in front of him. “Jaskier?” he murmurs.

It is not like with Marion, when he succumbed to the tugging and let go. This is an explosion happening to his body, to his shape. He stares at Geralt with fear. Geralt stares back with confusion.

Jaskier's eyes start leaking. It must look like ectoplasm from ghostly remains for tears.

“Are you... What happened to you?” Geralt touches the side of his head. His hand then moves to cradle Jaskier's face.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. The world goes blank.

The world is not blank anymore because there is a sword pressed to his neck, a silver one. The one for _monster_ monsters. Oh well.

“What did you do to him?” Geralt drawls from the other end of the sword.

“What?” says Jaskier, and a thousand voices follow.

“Did you possess him? Did you make a deal? Whatever he promised you can't be better than me not killing you right now. I am talking exorcism.”

He doesn't dare move. “Geralt,” he breathes out, this time more humanly.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?”

“Geralt,” he repeats. “This is my body, my body is doing this. This has always been my body.”

“What,” says Geralt.

“It's breaking, I don't know what's going on, usually I can keep it under covers, it's been getting harder lately but I managed it…” He trails off.

“Breathe, Jaskier.”

He breathes, he's never stopped breathing. The sword is no longer on his neck, but Geralt is still holding it.

“I don't know,” Jaskier says, “everything's like a dream, the humming in my head, like it's growing every day.” He sighs. “I'm overfed.”

“What are you feeding on?”

“People's affection,” he whispers. “Oh! Maybe they started liking my songs! But that shouldn't work like that.”

“I don't think so,” says Geralt.

“Hey, you mean anything by that?”

“Yes.”

A hand is gently holding his neck, the one that used to hold the sword. Another cups his face. Geralt's thumb is touching his parted lips. And before Jaskier can react, there are lips pressed to his. Warm lips, soft lips. The feeling is slipping from them. No, wait, that's just tongue. More lips and yet just a pair of them.

“What,” Jaskier breathes.

“What?” Geralt asks.

“It's you.”

“It's me,” Geralt agrees, probably not understanding.

Jaskier kisses him again. The pull is clearly there, urging him to return it. His hands grab hair, muscles, blazing skin, more muscles. He is getting pleasantly lost. “Stay here, please,” he whispers when they break apart.

Geralt lets out a small laugh. “Not on the floor.” He lifts Jaskier and carries him to bed. Strands of light are circling them, bringing them closer together, swirling and swirling and swirling. They are both drowning in it and it feels amazing.

It feels like love.

**Author's Note:**

> ~ english isn't my native language, so please excuse any mistakes  
> ~ if anyone shows interest in part 2, this time M- or E-rated... i'm on it.  
> ~ feedback as always welcome! :)


End file.
